


Cycling Through

by redlittleowl



Category: Avalon Code
Genre: it keeps happening, never stops, over and over and over again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlittleowl/pseuds/redlittleowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a place on top of a certain hill, where tall grass will not grow. It is a place of magic and life, and also a place of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cycling Through

**Author's Note:**

> First story on AO3.
> 
> I do not own Avalon Code. Semi-disregards some game canon in regards to who lived when/in which cycle.

There is a place on top of a certain hill, where tall grass will not grow. This patch of barely-covered earth lies before a large stone slab, which is covered in runic markings and crude circles. This place has been here forever, since before the dawn of time. It is where every Chosen One awakes on that fateful day, that day when Rempo swoops down from the Book and alights upon their face, or their shoulder, or their chest. It is a place of magic and life, and also a place of death.

It is where the four spirits await the end of each world, when the chapters of the Book are done. They all gather there with the Chosen One, Rempo and Mieli and Neaki and Ur, and they watch as natural disasters shake the foundations of the earth and send each incarnation of the globe into shattered pieces of rock and dust. They watch, and levitate, and do nothing.

That is how they were written Before It All. They cannot act, only watch and occasionally nudge the Chosen Ones in the right direction while protecting the Chosen One’s life. They are how the Book says they are. Yet, for all the grief and the heartbreak and soul-crushing despair, there are some few Chosen Ones who still give them hope for their world reincarnation.

There was one, Tia, who was one of the happiest. She loved flowers (the blue ones are the prettiest, I think, the cornflowers and the bellflowers and the poppies, they’re all so blue), and laughing (in the new world every child will be born laughing, not crying, because a baby’s cry for its lost mother is one of the saddest sounds I’ve ever heard), and skipping through meadows in spring (I love it when the grass reaches up to my knees and the flowers reach up to my hips and I can just spin through the softest nature all day), and making friends with everyone (no one should ever feel alone, I think, because that is the worst feeling in existence). Although, at the end of her world, there were no more meadows to skip through; there was no spring, either, because that was how the previous Chosen One had written it would be. Tia’s world was overcome by blinding light and searing heat as the sun went supernova, and Tia died alone, with her friends in ashes at her feet.

The one who came after Tia, Yumil, was almost her complete opposite. He almost never talked, and he had very few good friends. Those he did have were poor (Rex loves to whine about being poor, it’s one of the few things that makes him feel better about his situation), or had crippling nerves (Kamui loves flowers, and he knows the meaning of each of them; I wonder if he knows the meaning of blue cornflowers?), or were frail and sickly (I visited Fana again today, she’s not doing any better, I hate not being able to do anything for her). He tried his hardest, and he almost saved his world, almost succeeded, but then—but then. His world ended anyway, with meteors and earthquakes and fires.

Both times, Rempo and Mieli and Neaki and Ur could only watch. So it was every time before that, and so it is every time after. The four spirits can only watch and grieve and hope that a Chosen One comes along that will finally be able to fight fate and scratch out what the Book of Books says, and write their own, perfect, never-ending world.

Until then, they watch the cycle of birth and writing and death and rebirth with heavy hearts, noting each time how it takes the world a little longer to bring itself back together, how every incarnation of the book seems to be colored a bit darker, how each Chosen One seems to take longer to find even as the end of each world comes a little sooner.

Each time, the clock rewinds and it starts all over again at the large stone slab at the top of the hill. Soon, there will be no grass underneath the stone at all.


End file.
